


wherever there be monsters

by skuls



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s05e01-02 Redux, Pre-Episode: s05e04 Detour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: Mulder almost forgets his own birthday.





	wherever there be monsters

Mulder almost forgets his own birthday. It feels ridiculous, but he almost forgets his own birthday. (When he bought Scully the keychain earlier in the year, he’d wanted to defend himself by pointing out that he rarely remembers his  _own_  birthday, but there is really no excuse for forgetting the birthday of his partner and probably his best friend.) The first reminder is Frohike calling to invite him out to celebrate Langly’s birthday (since they inexplicably share a birthday). The second is the obligatory call from his mother, which he expects to be a lot more awkward (based off of her outrage about his faked suicide earlier in the year), but is actually a fairly nice conversation. A pleasant surprise. He promises to come up for Thanksgiving, and then he goes into work, the prospect of an event he’s rarely acknowledged since childhood bouncing around in his head.

The third reminder is the card, sitting on the top of his desk when he gets in. Scully’s sitting back in her chair, chewing on the end of her pen as she flips through a file, but she smiles at him as he sits down. “Happy birthday, Mulder.”

“Thanks, Scully,” he says, a little awed, as he opens up the envelope. The card has a caricature of Bigfoot on the front in a party hat, and he snorts. “Nice choice.”

“I thought you’d like it,” she says coyly.

He grins at her, and she grins back. They’ve been somewhat cooped up these past couple months, with Scully’s medical leave and subsequent desk duty, and god help him, it’s actually been a lot better than he expected. He misses the field, of course, but he’s gotten Scully back from the brink of death. He can spend a few months in the office if it means she’s okay. He’d do anything if it meant she’s okay—he  _did_ do anything, he faked his death and scared his mother and he’d do it again, do it for real if he had to. But he doesn’t because she  _is_ okay, and it’s a sad cliche, but that’s probably the best gift he could ask for.

The inside reads,  _Happy birthday! Party like Sasquatch_ , and Scully has written,  _I’m sure you would if Sasquatch were real—S_. He smiles again, lets his thumb brush over her signature and then hopes she didn’t notice. He slides the card back in the envelope, tucking it into his briefcase. “I figured that it’s been about four years,” says Scully slyly, eyes flashing. A reference to his  _dog years_ comment at her last birthday. “So by your philosophy, we can celebrate this one, right?”

He chuckles briefly, says, “I don’t think you’ve ever forgotten my birthday, Scully. You’re a much better friend than I am.”

He means it as a joke, but Scully’s chin ducks a little at that, as if avoiding his eyes. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mulder,” she says quietly. “I don’t think so at all.”

—

The day progresses somewhat normally from then on. Mulder more than prefers it that way. He hasn’t been big on birthdays since he turned twelve, and the whole thing had just seemed like a waste. They work on paperwork, since that’s about all they have left to do for the time being; they debate the necessity of the teamwork seminar they’re set to attend in Florida this week. Mulder is very, very against going; Scully is clearly not any happier—he knows she’s been itching to get out in the field—but she’s trying to be a good sport about it. It’s almost funny. They bicker idly, they order in lunch (which Scully suggests, clearly in acknowledgement of his birthday, and he tries not to laugh), and they ignore their typical responsibilities in a way that pre-remission Scully never would’ve. They’re both bored, stir crazy.  _Beyond_ stir-crazy. He’s considered sneaking off on a case more than once, but he won’t do anything to risk her health. No matter how much she insists she is fine.

Sometime around three in the afternoon, Scully sighs like a kid waiting anxiously for the school bell to ring, and says, “Let’s get out of here, Mulder.”

He laughs, almost nervously. “Dana Scully, suggesting we play hooky? I do not believe it.”

“This offer expires, you know,” she says haughtily. She stands, looping her keys around her finger; her Apollo keychain jangles in the air. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Congratulations, Scully,” he says, standing up and draping his coat idly over his arm. “You finally found something I don’t believe in. I’m going to open an X-File on this.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and sweeps open the door almost grandly.

—

But they don’t go to a bar. They end up walking into the parking garage together, shoulder to shoulder, black wool coats flapping. Scully bumps her shoulder against his companionably. “Where do you want to go, Mulder?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Anywhere,” he says.

“Wherever there be monsters, right?” she jokes, her eyes bright in the half-dim parking garage.

“Sure.” He bumps her shoulder back. “In two weeks.”

Her shoulders hunch up automatically; he knew that was coming. “I’m okay, Mulder,” she says, almost sternly. “You don’t need to protect me.”

“I know I don’t.” His hand comes down to land on her back, gentle. “I just want to wait two more weeks.”

“No, you don’t.” Her chin juts out stubbornly. “You never want to  _not_ go monster chasing. I’d thought that’d be your preferred birthday activity.”

“I really don’t want to do  _anything_  for my birthday,” he tries, and really means it. There’s a reason he never goes out with the Gunmen. “I’m not a big birthday person.”

“There’s one thing we have in common,” Scully mutters, almost begrudgingly.

He shakes his head ruefully, presses his hand harder against her back. “I just don’t want to tempt fate,” he says softly. “Okay? That’s all. After everything that happened… I can’t risk it. I can’t.”

Scully swallows; he can see the movement of her throat. “It’s your birthday, Mulder,” she says. “We’ll do what you want.”

Mulder rubs a hand over her back, uncertain. He  _has_ been bored since they more or less stopped the Files—a boredom he’s willing to endure, but still. And the last thing he wants to do is bring some rift between them, after everything. He rubs his hand in an absent circle again, Scully stiff under his fingers, and then it comes to him.

He says, “Hey, Scully, get in the car. I have an idea.”

—

He drives, and she shoots him suspicious looks from the passenger seat. “What the hell are you thinking, Mulder?” she says, her tone almost neutral, as they cross into Maryland.

“My birthday, right?” he says. “Trust me, Scully.”

She mock-scowls at him from the passenger seat. “This is what I get,” she says, almost to herself. “This is the last time you get free reign.”

He grins at her playfully. “Your birthday’s just a couple months away, Scully.”

They drive for an hour, drawing closer and closer to the Bay, when Scully sees the sign. “We’re going to Kent Island?” she asks incredulously. “What’s at Kent Island?”

“Scully,” Mulder says coyly, “how would you like to meet Maryland’s version of Big Blue?”

“Oh,  _no_.” She starts laughing, hard, and he grins; this is admittedly a better response than he usually gets to a goose chase like this. “Mulder! Seriously? That’s what you want to do on your birthday?”

“Here there be monsters,” he says, trying and failing at mysteriousness.

Scully giggles a little, rolling her eyes. “This is ridiculous, Mulder,” she says.

“It’s an X-File,” Mulder offers. “Sort of. And it’s one I’ve been meaning to check out for a while.”

“Ahh,” Scully says, folding her arms over her chest. “So it’s convenient.”

“I’d say so,” he says. “Happy birthday to me.”

She hits him lightly on the shoulder.

—

They pull down to the water as far as the car will go, and climb out together, walk to the edge of the water as the grass rustles around their ankles in the breeze. Mulder thinks about wrapping his arms around her for warmth, but doesn’t.

Instead, he speaks in his familiar flipping-through-slides-in-the-basement voice. “Chessie, the Chesapeake Bay’s version of Nessie. Sighted many noted times over the years, the most notable being a filmed version in 1982, right here on Kent Island.”

“It’s a myth, Mulder,” says Scully, shivering a little in the chill. “The film was probably a hoax, or a mistake. The story is ridiculous.”

“There’s  _evidence,_ Scully. Scientific evidence,” he says, almost happily. He doesn’t quite wrap his arm around her; he puts his hand against her back again, his arm almost pressed to her side, and she leans into it almost unconsciously.

Scully scoffs. “A film is hardly scientific evidence, Mulder. Sightings are hardly scientific evidence. I’ll remind you that your Big Blue was an alligator.”

“The  _attacks_  may have been the result of an alligator. That doesn’t prove there’s no Big Blue.”

She has stepped closer to him; he can feel the point of her elbow against his side, through their coats. “You’ve really been waiting to come here, Mulder?” she asks, and her voice is soft.

“Yeah,” he says. And he flattens his arm against her back, his hand sliding across to rest on her hip. “Yeah, I have.”

Her head is tilted towards him, her hair nudged by the chilly October wind. “So what do we do now?”

He rubs his hand over her side, watches the gray water. “We watch.”

—

And they do.

Mulder has a picnic blanket in the trunk of his car that is mostly clean, so they spread it out on the sand and sit, shoulder to shoulder. It’s late, and surprisingly cold, and Scully begins to shiver as the sun sinks low, rubbing her fingers together for warmth. He offers her a pair of gloves he’d forgot he had in his trunk, which she takes, and his coat, which she refuses. (“It’s freezing out, Mulder, don’t be ridiculous.”) The view is beautiful, even if it’s entirely the wrong weather, and they sit leaning against each other because there’s no way to do this otherwise.

By the time it’s dark, Scully has a hold on his arm and is tugging at it. “Let’s go get some dinner,” she says sternly. “I’m starving, and we can sit in the car. There’ll be heat there.”

He blinks at her in a sluggish sort of surprise. “You want to come back here? It’s late, Scully, we can head home.”

She shakes her head firmly. “This is a stakeout, right, Mulder? So we wait.”

She stands up next to the blanket, brushing off her coat methodically, and he smirks a little at her. “Traditionally, you don’t walk  _away_  from a stakeout, Scully,” he points out.

She extends a leather-glove hand to help him to his feet, which he takes. “Then it’s a good thing that this thing isn’t real, Mulder,” she says, smirking right back.

—

They eat dinner in the car, parked facing the water. The heat is blowing on them, turned all the way up because Scully is always too cold, and after they’ve eaten their way through the takeout and split the probably expired (if candy expires) candy bars in the glove compartment, she curls up in the passenger seat and drapes her coat over herself like a blanket. “You tired, Scully?” Mulder asks softly, reaching for the gear shift.

“Mm, no,” she says firmly, shifting under her coat. “We’re not done with the stakeout, are we? I’m fine.”

“We should probably head home,” he offers gingerly, “we have work tomorrow…”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “‘Mm fine,” she says. “We’re fine.”

Mulder smiles ruefully, shakes his head and turns back to the water. His hand rests on the center console absently, drumming his fingers on the leather as he watches for any strange shapes, any signs of Chessie, when he feels Scully reach over sleepily and take his hand.

It’s a shock, because they usually only hold hands when everything has gone to shit, when one of them is dying. And she had almost died, but she’s alive, and she’s holding his hand in the car with him while they look for sea monsters, and it’s the best birthday he’s had in a while. The best gift he could’ve asked for.

“Thanks, Scully,” he says softly. He rubs his finger over her knuckles gently. Thinks about kissing her knuckles again, but doesn’t. “Thank you for… coming here with me. I know this isn’t your idea of a great time.”

She scoffs sleepily, squeezes his fingers gently as she yawns. “This was fun, Mulder. But next time, just let me buy you a drink.”


End file.
